Gift sense

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It was February, cold, and Al "Little Hands" Scarpi was pumping iron outside his double-wide on the outskirts of Las Vegas. Raising the bar over his head, he watched a ponytailed kid on a Harley roar up in a swirl of dust. Parting his leather jacket, the kid removed an airline ticket and spun it like a Frisbee, nailing Little Hands squarely in the chest.

"How much you bench?" the kid wanted to know.

"Five hundred, sometimes more," Little Hands said, wiping his sweaty face with a stained towel. "You lift?"

The kid laughed and revved his hog, as if that was all the muscle he needed.

"You on 'roids or something?" the kid asked.

"Steroids are for pussies," Little Hands said.

The kid left and Little Hands went inside his trailer. The ticket was for a noon Nevada Air puddle-jumper to Reno, the return for later that night. Printed on the sleeve was the confirmation number of a Hertz rental, a four-wheel-drive Jeep Cherokee. Printed beneath that were cryptic instructions. Cal-Neva Lodge-ask for Benny.

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